Lähtö
by v2point0
Summary: He's never had a near death experience as a human, the pain of slowly dying without the ability to heal. Not until now. 5x04 spoilers; slashy; Dean/Cas


A little fic I did for the LJ SPN prompt community, **wordsmeetwings**. I borrowed their format, too. :D For some reason Document Manager's editor is being a real pain about borders, so I used the ones provided. So if it's all suddenly jumbled, blame them. |B(

**Title**: Lähtö  
**Rating**: R-ish  
**Characters/Pairings**: Castiel, Dean; mild Dean/Castiel  
**Prompt**: 1. Dean/Castiel – For a moment, I can tell I've got you.  
**Spoilers**: If you've not seen up to 5x04, _The End_, turn back now. The fic takes place in that time frame.  
**Word count**: 5360  
**Warnings**: Profanity, mild violence, mild gore, Winchesters singing very badly  
**Summary**: He's never had a near death experience as a human, the pain of slowly dying without the ability to heal. Not until now.  
**Notes**: what is this angst beast. I apologize if Cas comes off as a little bit woobie-ish. I wanted to play on the "shell shock" of his new state of being, and just how different it is from his old life.

**Disclaimer**: Nothin' is mine, bros.

* * *

In the beginning, when Castiel had been first introduced to humans, Dean had stressed on multiple occasions that his kind could not take as much damage as angels. They did not heal at super fast speeds, they did not shrug off fatal wounds most angels considered superficial, they could not handle sudden quantum leaps and power surges that are like walks in the park to Castiel. Uriel constantly reminded Castiel of the many faults and weaknesses in humans, citing his bitterness at their top on God's list. Angels were much superior, mentally, physically, perhaps emotionally, so why was it that the humans were getting all the respect?

"Think of it like this, Castiel," Uriel said the day he and his companion left Heaven, "humanity are like cockroaches. Not only do they breed en mass and cause nothing but trouble, our Father holds them higher than us. Do you know what that feels like? To be _lower_ than an _insect_?"

Castiel didn't understand. God loved all His creations. And he didn't have enough history or knowledge of humanity to agree or disagree. In the beginning, Castiel began to see them as his Father's children, which meant they needed protection; nothing more. Over time, he saw the great capacity of a human's selfish desires, their abilities to murder their own for the most base and materialistic needs. But the deeper he looked, and the more closer he got with the Winchesters, he discovered God was not coddling them. Infact, God was putting them through their own versions of Hell, albeit seemingly minor to angels, in a test of their faith.

Eventually, Castiel would understand why humans doubted their creator so much. And while he began doubting, he did not stop searching, did not stop digging. Always, somehow, he knew his Father cared. After all, Dean and Sam would have been dead upon unleashing Lucifer had He not intervened.

Zachariah had turned to Castiel, days before his death. He said with a smirk, "What makes you think Daddy saved them?" The younger angel was quiet. "You do know we need them alive so they can consent to their vessels being used. So how do you know it wasn't one of the higher ups? How do you know it wasn't _Michael_?" Zach sneered when Castiel did not reply. "So let's say God saved them. What does that tell you? Does God care for their lives? Or," he bent forward, eyebrows raised with the corners of his grin, "do you think he wants them to accept their fate as the vessels of our brethren just as well?"

That was a blow Castiel had not prepared himself for. And while he was left with doubt, there was still a sliver of a chance it _was_ God, and He saved them out of good intentions. ("Where do they tend to lead, Castiel?") Castiel just had to prove it, and he would.

It wasn't until Joshua informed the trio that God had indeed left the building and was no longer interested in the disasters of His creations.

All ready falling, all ready faith slipping day by day, with humans fearing him, angels calling him a traitor and demons constantly at his throat, it didn't take long before the final domino hit the floor. Castiel ran on empty for a few more miles, before crashing and burning. Victories were far and few in between; hope was a joke, and so were all the things Castiel had been raised to believe, cherish and trust.

Months passed, years, and Castiel who once knew nothing of the fragility, the pain, pleasure, happiness, sadness of humans, was now a human himself.

Jimmy's voice had quieted years ago. Castiel was no longer sure he was still there. He was permanently attached to this mortal vessel now, and if Jimmy wasn't trapped in that corner of his mind, he was either off in Heaven (which sounded only slightly better than Earth right now) or he had simply... faded. Melted into Castiel's core personality, giving him all the strengths and weaknesses of a typical human without any of his own unique quirks to absorb.

How tragic. Castiel had hoped Jimmy would survive the battle and return to his family. But who knew what happened to them. It had been a long time, and since the fall, Castiel had no desire to turn up on their doorstep, beaten, broken, informing wife and daughter that, hey, Jimmy's a total wreck and because I don't have any powers anymore, I can't leave his body. Hope you don't mind if I keep it, because even if I were to kill myself, he'd die along with me. Sorry to say and so how are you?

Of course if they were even still alive.

It was the truth. Castiel wasn't sure _why_ he remained living. Why he didn't just off himself. There was a reason, he knew that much, but he always seemed to forget. It wasn't for Jimmy. If Jimmy was still sharing his body, killing him would be doing him a favor. This war? Bleak outlook. Hilarious if you thought humanity would win.

Still, Castiel fought, fought his hardest, and yet still did not know why.

The first few months of adjusting to a mortal, human life had been particularly tough on Castiel.

First off, where his own life essence was enough to keep the vessel steady and working, Castiel now had to rely on substance to keep his body going. The hamburgers had been Famine's doing; now he required constant meals and liquids to sustain his vitals and energy. It wasn't so bad; he could now understand and appreciate the flavor of certain foods, while others made him ill.

There was the matter of sleeping, too. Angels did require some rest, but humans needed it every single day. At least eight hours to function normally. Cas once only slept for a few hours and found his head throbbing, vision dulled and body weak the rest of the day upon doing so. He overslept once and it had the same effects. Humans could do neither extreme, had to keep to a perfect track if they wanted to balance themselves.

Oh, and what joy of joys there was in expelling excess waste. Castiel decided never to concentrate too deeply on such embarrassing attributes.

But the most painful adjustment was just that: the pain.

Pain was universal for all sentient creatures, and angels were prone to many different types. Human pain was a lot weaker to their own, however. A slug to the jaw could crack bones, just one blow, whereas an angel could barely feel a brush. Sure, he'd broken Jimmy's bones and he felt the pain, but they healed fast. Healing was also a human trait, but a very slow process. Sometimes a simple cut could take a week to heal over just a few seconds on angels, or demons for that matter. Christ, a bullet to the leg caused an itch while the shell was picked from the wound, when such hits could paralyze or even _kill_ humans.

Castiel had learned this the hard way on a few occasions. Drunk at a bar his first week in as a human resulted in exchanging insults with a rather burly biker who's tattoo of a cross on his forearm was a crude joke to the fallen angel. While both men took a licking, Castiel's nose was shattered and took a month to heal. Fighting a demon sometime later, the bastard took a steel bat to him and crushed his arm numb. Dean had yelled at Cas to stop poking the giant bruises of purple and blue on his twisted arm.

At least there was the pleasure of sex, drugs and alcohol.

But there was yet to be any near death _human_ experience for Castiel. He was thankful for that, he supposed. At least part of him was, and it wasn't Jimmy.

Ah, but when you're in the middle of a war, dancing on the edges of death is commonplace.

* * *

Dean, Castiel and a group of hunters had left camp that early morning to gather supplies. An hour trip on the road was dangerous, even with their secret routes lined with protective sigils on the gravel. But informants on a recon mission discovered the town had just recently been abandoned; no human life left, all dead or gone, but there was indeed plenty of food and ammo they desperately needed left behind.

It had been a quiet trip the first fifteen minutes in. The army van was painted with crude sigils, its steel coated in fresh salt, windows darkened and thick. In the back, like soldiers about to be dropped off onto the battlefield, Cas and five others sat, Dean and a seventh hunter driving. They were hunched over their guns, locked and loaded. It was grimy, dirty in the back, dim too, and no one looked particularly happy--well, no one truly ever did. But they were exhausted, the previous night leaving them in fitful sleep.

Cas had gotten enough. He passed out early from boozing it up early that evening. Still, the hangover lingered, occasionally banging at the back of his temples like a bitchy, nosy neighbor. One of the group's nurses prescribed him Tylenol and Castiel always laughed at how he now had to rely on human medicine to stop even one slight headache. Still, it was kicking in and soon he'd be alert enough for anything thrown at him.

About a half hour in, one of the men took out a small radio and put on a mix tape of classic rock songs. Dean gave them the okay, as long as they weren't too loud. Half way into the first song, everyone started jamming, laughing and singing badly; Castiel, too, swinging and swaying with his partners on both sides of him, not knowing the lyrics but going along with them anyway.

Free had just finished assuring the hunters everything was alright now before Dean cut the music as they pulled into the ghost town. It went utterly silent amongst the group, as they drove further into the town, torn apart, looking worn and aged as if it had been abandoned for years instead of just a few days. The hunters made sure they were loaded, well protected before Dean parked the van in the empty lot of a grocery store.

Dean took the first step out of the vehicle, made sure the coast was clear before ordering his men from the truck. They spilled out, guns cocked, constantly checking every direction. They huddled into a tightly knit group for a minute, three of the men keeping eyes on the outside of their circle.

"There's a hardware store next door," Dean noted. "We're going to split into two groups." He nodded to the blonde woman, her husband and a muscular eight foot giant. "Hardware. I'll need more hands for the groceries." The trio nodded before he sent them off with a gesture. Castiel and the remaining three looked to their leader.

Dean situated them, making sure everyone covered the other. He watched as the second group scampered across the parking lot, before Giant kicked down the hardware store's door and they slipped inside. With that, Dean nodded and darted with the others to the grocery store. The electricity had been cut, leaving all alarms rendered offline. Using the butts of their guns, the group bashed the glass from the sliding doors, crawling into the gaping, glass stalagmite holes carefully.

Dean left one to guard the door, as he and the others separated to different sections of the store. "Dry and packaged produce for you," Dean said, snatching Castiel by the arm and tugging him back. The fallen angel had planned to raid the dairy aisle. "You're well acquainted with the munchies enough to pick out the snacks." It was a taunt, though not entirely humorous, before he pushed past Castiel and took off.

Castiel just shrugged and grabbed a cart in the middle of the aisle. It had a few groceries inside, suggesting someone had stopped mid-shopping to run for their lives. Castiel carelessly tossed out the spoiled milk, letting it bust open and spill on the tile, but kept the box of cereal, cans of tuna and mayonnaise inside.

Cas made his way down the aisles, working fast. He shoveled whatever looked edible into the cart. By the third aisle, the damn thing was bloated with random crap. Castiel found himself down the cookies and snack section, and he couldn't help but maybe stuff more junk food than necessary into the remaining crevices of the cart mountain. He had come to find guacamole chips and Reeses were on top tier of his cravings when high.

"May I help you with anything, sir?"

Cas whipped around, gun raised. He was suddenly face to face with a pretty middle aged woman, dressed in the store's uniform. She smiled sweetly before her eyes turned a morbid black. With a loud snarl, she ducked forward, Cas firing but missing. The demon latched onto his gun, ripping it easily from his hands. When he had his powers, his grip would have been much stronger. Nonetheless, certainly the gunshot and her loud shriek would alert the others to come to his aide.

The demon shoved Castiel back, sending him colliding with his cart. The handle bar jabbed him sharply mid-back and he recoiled forward with a pained growl. However, he managed to grab her hands when they reached for his throat, holding her back. The demon hissed as she started to overpower him with her extraordinary strength. Castiel, however, was certainly not weak and most certainly wasn't going to die by her hands.

Castiel butt his head with hers, causing both of them to scowl. But she withdrew and he quickly dove at the cart, digging inside and removing a small bag of salt. As she came for him again, he ripped it open with his teeth, tossed it at her like a grenade; a wave of it splashed across her front, sending her screeching and howling as she ran off in the opposite direction.

"Cas!"

Dean was getting closer. "Aisle two!" Castiel shouted and made way to chase her. However, she stopped then, turned around; he had retrieved the half empty bag of salt, meant to shove it down her throat. The demon bent to miss another strike, grabbed his gun and fell back on her rear, both her and the rifle's barrel pointed up at the wide eyed fallen angel.

"Thanks for shopping at Greene's, valued customer," the demon giggled innocently. Castiel had meant to duck when he heard a crash down the aisle. One of the hunters had been slammed into a cart of bread on his way to aide Cas, ambushed by a possessed grocer. This distraction proved fatal and the demonness cackled as she pulled the trigger.

There came a loud clap of thunder that rocked Castiel's whole body. At first, it was like someone sucker punched him in the gut, sending him spiraling backwards. The world blurred and spun and he couldn't fell the pain of crashing onto his back on the tile, head bouncing roughly on its surface. There was a stinging sensation in his gut, and he suddenly felt wet along his stomach.

Castiel's senses began to dull. He could hear everything muffled in thick filters. More gun shots, a scream. His vision was glossy, fading, though he did recall he was lying in a pile of the salt. He could hear his heavy breathing, his heart beat pounding in his head. A figure in black was at his side, though he didn't know when they got there, or who it even was, and he felt faint touches on his wrist and stomach.

The last thing Castiel saw before blacking out was red blood pooling beneath him.

Mostly it was darkness. Nothing but an endless black, and a semi-aware state of existing.

Occasionally, blurs of imagery would creep through. They'd disappear as soon as they came, winking in and out of existence. One lasted five seconds; he saw Dean's face towering over him, and he looked angry. Why? Sometime later, another ten second flash, only this time he saw bright ceiling mounted lights and heard a flood of voices before slipping into the comfortable darkness.

Then Castiel saw Jimmy, as if they were standing together, sharing the same face, same body, but completely separated. Jimmy was staring directly at him, his eyes so heavy, his face so pale it caused Castiel to shiver. He looked like Hell, covered in blood, and there was a squall of men and women stripping his blood soaked clothes from Jimmy's poor body. And when they had the clothes off, oh God, Castiel could see the wound on Jimmy's stomach. So terrible, so ugly, bubbling more crimson and bright red blood, the wound seemingly so small, and yet reaching so deep.

Castiel needed to heal the wound. It was life threatening to humans. He needed to keep Jimmy alive, though he wasn't sure why. Castiel rose his hand to touch the wound, to fix it in just a few seconds. Someone was trying to pull his hand away; couldn't they see he was going to heal him? Castiel yanked his hand free and let his fingers touch, bury into the wound, regretting this would hurt only Jimmy and not--

Castiel screamed as pain shot through his system and up his spine. His eyes snapped wide open, entire body giving a violent jolt. He did not know where he was, though doctors were surrounding him. "We need that anesthesia now!" one of them screamed.

"We don't have any left!"

"Shit!" The doctor gently pressed her hands against Castiel's naked chest. "Castiel, I'm going to need you to lay back and keep calm."

"We're... going to do the procedure? Without him under?"

"We've no choice!"

"What's going on!?" Cas demanded. He sat up, only to double in pain and fall back. But it gave him enough time to see the bullet wound bleeding him dry in his stomach. And that only connected the final pieces before the pain really set in. "What happened!?" he snarled.

"You need to calm down--"

"Tell me what happened!"

"Ma'am, if we're going to save his life, we need to get the bullet out _now_."

"We're have to restrain him."

Castiel panicked. "No, you can't--!" But then two doctors were taking his arms, forcing him down against the bed. They were no match for his strength, even though half of it was drained from his body with his blood. "Do not restrain me!" he spat, shoving one of the medics to the ground and against a table of instruments. He glared threateningly at the doctor still clinging to his arm. "Let go of me!"

"Castiel!"

The fallen angel froze completely. Dean was suddenly at his side, holding Cas down. Castiel didn't fight back, his wide, frightened eyes looking into Dean's. The hunter was much better at concealing his own fear. "What happened to me?" he gulped. "I feel so... weak..."

Dean just looked to the doctors and nodded. Castiel didn't register the bindings strapped around his wrists and ankles. He gave a violent shake and scream when the blood was wiped hastily away from his wound. "What's happening to me!?" he roared, glaring at Dean's poker face.

"We don't have enough of his bloodtype."

Dean looked to the doctor. "How much do you need?" he asked, voice stern and void of emotion.

"At least four more pints. He won't... survive without at least that much."

Castiel yanked at his bindings. "Survive!? What--"

"I'll call for emergency donations," Dean scowled and took off.

Castiel gasped. "Dean! Where are you going!?" he snapped. He rose up into the bed, back arched, but unable to release himself. Suddenly, he felt a pinprick sensation driving into his wound and he screamed, lurching upward.

"Strap him down!"

Castiel panted as he looked down, doctors adding straps over his chest and knees. Whatever remaining blood was left in his face washed away when he saw a doctor and nurse pry open his gunshot wound, intent on removing the bullet. More blood was ushering forth, and more nurses were dragging IV drips of blood and needles to his side.

The pliers went deeper. "Goddammit!" Castiel screamed, head dropping back into the bed. He grit his teeth together until they damn near shattered with pressure. Fingers were now prying open the hole and he bashed his head repeatedly against the table. "Fuck! Fuck!" He ground his wrists and heels into the bedding until the flesh burned, toes cramping from curling, fingers so tightly clenched his knuckles were about to pop out.

This wound, it could have been healing nicely, recovery in only a matter of minutes. It felt like centuries now, and the pain would not stop relenting. It beat at every bit of sinew in his body, twisting and tearing at his muscles both dull and blunt. He hadn't realized he started hyperventilating, causing the dizziness and nausea to increase. One doctor quickly shoved an oxygen mask over his mouth, pumping air forcefully into him.

Castiel could feel the fight in him slipping away. He could almost feel the very blood leave his veins and gush from his wound. The bullet had been retrieved, tossed into a bloody mess on a tray behind the doctors. Needles were jabbed into his wrists and jugular as blood slowly crawled inside him from a webbing of thin tubes. Still, he could only find himself drifting, and while the pain was beginning to decrease, the fear only grew.

Castiel's body was stiff, immobile. He had no ability to scream out, to curse, to run. Death had him pinned; like the worm finally dying as it struggled on the hook curved through its body. The air the doctor was fervently pumping into his lungs was not registering or accepting. Nothing they seemed to be doing was bringing him back, body sinking further and further until nearly everything was numb.

So, this was a human's death. In all his brushes with death, in all his moments where he thought he'd never recover, Castiel had never felt so scared. And he had never cried, though he was faintly aware of the blurry film over his eyes and a tear rolling down his numb cheek.

* * *

Dean accused Castiel of having a bloodcurdling voice, and yet his own was nearly just as bad.

Sam was the same. Neither brother could really sing, yet for some reason they decided to do it anyway. Usually they lipsynched, Castiel noticed as he sat in the back of the Impala, but they decided to actually add their voice into the mix of the song. Sam was playing an invisible drum set, Dean picking the strings of a guitar made of air. They were laughing their asses off between the lyrics, making up some of them as they went along.

"Are you two all right?" Castiel rose his voice over the music. "You appear to be having a strange music induced seizure."

"We're jamming, Cas!" Sam laughed.

Castiel tilted his head. "Why? Is the music alone not good enough for you?"

"People do this when they're having fun," Dean snickered, continuing to play his air guitar. "How can we dance when the world is turning? How can we sleep when the beds are burning?" he sang.

Cas narrowed his eyes. "You both are very skilled at many subjects," he noted, "but you severely lack singing abilities."

The brothers looked to one another, torn between confusion, amusement and offense. Amusement won out in the end, and they stopped their singing and playing to just laugh themselves breathless. Castiel did not understand what was so funny, but at least the screeching had stopped.

Dean looked at Castiel through the rear view mirror. "Hey," he said, pointed to his lips, "you got something on your mouth."

Cas blinked before touching his lips. When he drew back his fingers, they were coated in blood. He had no time to wonder what happened before he felt a lurching choke in his throat. He heaved forward, gasping up a thick rivet of blood. The brothers just went about cackling and joking as the music blared.

Castiel was dumbfounded, shocked. Blood began to ooze from his nostrils, more of it dripping from his chin. His lap felt soaked; he looked down quickly, found the front of his suit was dyed in fresh blood. Quickly, shaky hands ripped open his suit, and his eyes widened at the sudden stomach gash pumping out waves of the maroon liquid.

"You know, Cas."

Castiel gave a loud growl of pain between grit teeth when something sharp stabbed his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut until he saw stars, falling back against the leather seat. "You should try doing a little singing," Dean continued, smiling at him from the mirror.

Cas clutched at his stomach, fingers digging into the torn flesh. What was happening? Why wasn't he healing himself? "You should practice your air guitar, too," Sam added with a smirk.

"That's what humans do, you see," Dean explained. Castiel groaned, eyes rolling back as he slumped onto his side. Dean's soft green eyes, with the corners crinkled in smiles, watched him bleed out in his backseat. "After all, you're human now, you know?"

Sam then turned the volume up a notch. "I know this one! I can do this one!" he insisted. "Birds fly in the eye of the pathos something..."

The act of simply turning his head hurt. Castiel looked to the back of the Winchester's heads, heaving and choking on blood. "S-Stop..." he croaked.

"I think it's 'daughter.'"

"Whatever--spoken at the bitter end, wasted, sacrificed for the new Nirvana--"

Castiel reached a hand for them, for Dean. He could see his profile, grinning ear to ear, eyes trained on the road. "Dean," he coughed, fingers brushing so close.

Dean then looked back at him with that gentle, playful smile. "You know the lyrics, Cas?" he chuckled. "'Night time sends the sun away.'" Dean frowned when Cas only panted, terror in his pleading eyes. "C'mon, Cas, sing with us," he jeered. The angel dug his nails tight into the leather.

Dean smiled again. "You're one of us now."

The darkness came from the inside, like a demon of smoke ripping through his body on its way out. His eyes rolled back, replaced with blackness, heart stopping dead in his chest. Somewhere he could hear Jimmy crying, calling for his family, but Castiel kept reaching, grabbing for Dean, who had long since disappeared in the black smoke that stung his eyes and nostrils and closed his airways with soot.

Castiel's eyes bulged as his hand, stretched before him, began to rot. It decayed fast, flesh peeling apart, maggots eating at the rotten muscle and tissue, until it hung loosely in strands from his fingers, until it was nothing but bone, bone that withered away into dust--

But then, before everything turned to ash, a hand, a human hand, grabbed his wrist. The bones regrew, muscles fresh, skin clean--and then he was wrenched from the darkness and into the sharp light of a small cabin room.

Castiel screamed, though his throat was raw. He could still feel weight around his wrist as he began hyperventilating again, as if he had been pulled from nearly drowning. Nothing registered though there was a sense of familiarity of his surroundings, not until hands were squeezing his arms and shaking him.

"Castiel! _Cas_!"

Just as it did his hour of dying, Dean's voice silenced and stilled Castiel completely. Dean was kneeling on the bed in front of him, still holding his arms, face twisted in surprise. Cas's breathing regulated, albeit heavy and hoarse. Still, his body shook, nerves too jumbled and haywire to calm. Dean's grip on his arms loosened.

"I got you," Dean whispered, holding tightly, and he knows for a moment he does, "I got you."

"What..." Castiel gulped, voice just as shaky. He felt something in his nostrils and touched experimentally. Tubes--oxygen tubes. His eyes swiveled nervously around him; needles and tubes penetrated his wrists, bags of blood continuing to fill him anew. His panicked eyes returned to Dean. "What happened to me?"

"You were shot and lost a lot of blood," Dean explained.

Castiel gulped. He looked down, hands ripping open his worn and dirtied shirt. His stomach was bandaged, hiding away the wound. "Did I... heal..."

"No," Dean said firmly. "Doctors patched and stitched you up. They just changed your bandage about ten minutes ago."

Castiel's eyes darted back and forth. "I'm not... dead?" he croaked.

"Not quite yet, buddy," Dean smirked. "We were worried you wouldn't make it. But we got enough donations to keep you alive." He snorted. "You at least spared me more shit to deal with--the bullet barely missed puncturing your kidney."

Jimmy's kidney. Angels don't have kidneys.

But.

"I'm going to live?" Castiel asked.

Dean nodded. "Doctors said you'll be bed bound for a few weeks. At least we've got enough painkillers to last you another month or two." He sat back, sighing heavily. "But we're all out of AB+. We don't have enough donors around to build up a good enough supply for at least a month or more."

Castiel watched him silently, eyes heavy lidded. "You could have saved the blood. Certainly, you might have saved more lives if you discarded mine," he mumbled.

Dean glared at him. "I thought you got over your suicidal bullshit years ago?"

"I'm not suicidal. I am merely stating a fact," Castiel explained, though damn did it feel like he was still dying. His hands touched his wound's dressing. "To save me, you might be risking, or killing, possibly--"

Dean grabbed the fallen angel by his shirt collar, yanked him face to face. "Now is not the time to be an ungrateful prick," he warned.

Castiel studied his eyes and it was then-- Yes. He remembered now. He remembered why he was still alive. It was all because of this single human here.

Dean had stuck with him even after Castiel's Father had long since abandoned them. Dean had continued to fight, even if the fight was futile, continued to live even though it might have been better if he died. Continued to breathe, to laugh, to make friends, to help others even when his brother had willingly surrendered himself to Lucifer, and he slept every night even upon knowing one day he'd have to kill him.

Dean had more to lose than Castiel, and still he fought.

"Like roaches, a little..." Castiel murmured, dazed.

Dean blinked before touching a hand to his forehead. "You're on fire," he noted, wiping away a few beads of sweat.

"Roaches and gods combined," the fallen angel grunted, an amused, weak smile playing at his pale, cracked lips. He almost fell back, had Dean not latched onto him again, pulling him into a sit. Castiel instead fell forward against his chest.

Castiel expected to be shoved off. "You angels aren't too different--roaches, that is," he snorted and Cas could feel warm breath on his scalp. "Lost too many people." Moist lips kissed the hot skin and mussed hair. "Can't afford to lose your sorry ass, too."

Cas gave a low murmur as he rested his face into the nook of Dean's shoulder. One quivering, pale hand sporting a needle reached up, placed itself perfectly over an age old scar on the hunter's shoulder. The warm arms around him tightened, and Cas pressured his hand against the mark.

Castiel was all human now. At least, maybe to everyone else. But sometimes, he swore he could still fly. Dean was usually there when it happened, when he was soaring. Though no longer able to fly on his own, he held on tight to Dean like a safeguard. In those moments, Castiel knew he was in good hands.

_Castiel once told Uriel, "I have noticed that humans tend to display the most affection when they are losing a loved one. They especially hold each other frequently during such events."_

_"Ah, that," Uriel snorted, "selfish bastards. They're trying to weigh the dead down from leaving in some ridiculous way. As if they can keep a part of them if they do. So they hold on and hope they can keep holding--to them, to something, I don't know. Irrational and pointless, not to mention overly sentimental."_

Dean's arms rubbed circles into his back. Castiel's entire body felt hot and heavy from the scorching fever. Still, he could not sleep, did not want to sleep. Tired, glazed eyes were hidden behind long lashes as he rested in this embrace.

_Castiel tilted his head at his angel comrade. "I do not understand," he said._

He did now.

* * *

END

Cookies for anyone who can name the songs mentioned in the fic. Also, the title's name is based on a Finnish song called Lähtö by Chisu. It translates to "departure." I like the mood of the song and the lyrics, so yeah. THERE.

Also, I don't know what Jimmy's bloodtype is. I winged (haw) it, okay.


End file.
